A morning at the hairdressers

I just took on an assignment that has me writing to deadlines, to pressure, and puts me back onto Parliament Hill in Ottawa, rushing around from place to place where barely a minute to rest.

This morning, Saturday morning, I went to the hairdresser's and leafed through thick, glossy magazines full of pictures of beautiful women, the latest fashions and cosmetics ads.

As I relaxed, a technician named Kathleen washed my hair, and then my stylist chopped about four inches off. I enjoyed the break and thought about how much one needs this kind of down time when the workaday world is an adrenaline rush, a busy blur.

How does one move from rest, move in a way that exhibits and exudes the fruit of the Spirit when one is running around like a character in an old Charlie Chaplin movie?
I was noticing even at my health club the other day that I was emptying my locker and packing my gym back to the frantic beat of some awful rap song, like some kind of puppet.

The last time I had work this demanding, what saved my sanity was my little cathedral and the midweek Mass. I could arrive there at 5:30 p.m. for Evensong (spoken, but in unison, so it's like a choir), and the Eucharist at 6:00 p.m. The bells ring, the priests walk in, and you are in a sacred, transcendent time where Jesus is saying "take, eat, this is my Body". When I was unable to quiet my mind, this would quiet it.

Sometimes, when you find it hard to pray, it's good to know that Jesus is our high priest and interceding for us. And sometimes it is good to go to worship in a place where everything that happens physically reminds you of that fact.